


Alphabet ; Soup

by Oracle_Lune



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oracle_Lune/pseuds/Oracle_Lune
Summary: A character study on Five for the month of October
Kudos: 11





	1. A

**Author's Note:**

> Updates are more frequent on tumblr

##  A is for A l c a t r a z

Setting sun, blue bleeding into orange pink. Bright and unsightly and Five watches it through glass, the light against the top of buildings, highlighting the dust and grime caked onto the window. Long black shadows are cast down the street and it’s reminiscent of the time he spent alone. A thousand setting suns in penance. Silence as his company, a companion that he could never shake. The old academy felt like a tomb, layers of dirt and dust sitting atop objects that haven’t been touched in years.

There are cameras still in the rooms, attached to the ceiling. Wires unplugged, frayed, and no longer working. The remains of a childhood no one should experience. Parts of the building are polished and clean, kept in order, pristine like before he left. The places Grace continued to care for long after the children fled the building. A ghost that haunted the halls, ever present and Five often wonders if she continued to make breakfast in the shape of smiles even when Pogo and their father were the only ones left.

Five pushes the window to his room open, a scrape of metal and his palm against glass that has seen better days. There’s still toys on the ground, a dartboard next to the door and it’s like he never left. A streak of light, bits of dust in the air and Delores is perched on a chair beside the window. Knowing eyes, unblinking. He leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, looks out to the street below.

So much time spent trying to escape, only to move from one cage to another.

“Freedom is a myth.”

_ Cynical as always _

The corner of his lips twitch up, a shadow of a smile, a mockery of regular human emotion.

“Forgive me for not knowing how to live any other way.”

Hating my past, I found the old me  
Bullet proof vest, my only clothing  
Hiding alone, prison is **_h o m e_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics from Alcatraz by Oliver Riot


	2. B

##  B is for Brevity

  


_Noun_

**/ˈbrevədē/**

  * Concise and exact use of words in writing or speech
  * Shortness of time



Dim lighting and the chair creaks under his slight weight. The lamp hanging over the kitchen table hums, an electrical discharge that Five doesn’t think he’ll ever grow used to. He turns the page of the newspaper, a rustling sound that mixes in with the distant patter of rain against windows. Early mornings with no one awake in the house are always the most disturbing, unsettling in his chest.

A mockery of his time spent alone.

The lamp hums and it’s almost reassuring.

Five occupies the time with reading, focuses on the words that were written, vague interest in the stories. He can hear Grace moving about in background, her heels against the floor, a light humming filtering in like an old radio left on. She’s a fragment of the past that he can’t seem to let go, a living ghost. Nostalgia at it’s finest, a weakness that he covers up. Men always go for women who somehow reflect their mothers, Five knows that Delores is no different, a false creation for a lonely soul.

Her words still linger in his head, fill in the spaces of his mind.

She reminds him to be polite, to watch his tone. Not everyone understands what he’s talking about, not everyone thinks the way he does. Careful, careful – you’ll say to much. A constant nagging that wares on him, a continuous stream of reprimands when he speaks to vehemently. Delores is the reason he doesn’t outright kill anyone or anything that grates against his nerves.

A tether that binds him to what’s left of his humanity.

_ Pick your words with care, or we’ll end up alone in a world full of people. _

The door to the kitchen is nudged open, heavy steps as Luther drags himself to the table. He looks half asleep, pulls a chair out and plops down in it. The wood creaks in protest, a sound the blots out the hum of the light above, the rain against the window. “How are you even up? Do you not sleep?”

Five shakes the newspaper lightly, lifts it up to cover his face.


	3. C

##  C is for Copper

  


29  
CU  
63.546

It tastes metallic, sharp and bright on his tongue, sticks to his teeth. Mouth wiped against the back of his sleeve, smearing it across his cheek and Five doesn’t need to see himself to know he looks a mess. Red on white, eyes wide and he smiles to himself. His lips stretch, a crooked grin, amused and there’s a distant part of himself that knows he shouldn’t enjoy this. Temps turned him into something he doesn’t recognize, something that doesn’t revolt at the scent of blood, at the taste of it in his mouth.

_ (( **“I don’t like all this meaningless death.”** )) _

It’s what he tells himself over and over again, a mantra that he uses to justify a means. If there were a point, then his actions didn’t matter. If there was a reason for it, then he could pull the trigger, swing the blade, spray red on the wall. (( _**“I don’t enjoy killing.”** ))_ Stepping inside of the house, the lights off and there’s blood on his face, hair matted with it and his hands are shaking. He licks at his lower lip, split from a harsh punch and it tastes of copper, pungent and foul and it makes his heart race. Exhaustion is slowly crawling up his back, a weight on his shoulders and he nearly misses the figure sitting on the stairs, looking down at him.

“It’s not mine.” An automatic response, walls going up and Five has to school his expression into place.

“ _Jesus_ , Five what did you do?” Vanya is standing up, quick steps down to the landing. She looks disgusted by his appearance.

He knows he should be to, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

(( **Temps took that from him.** ))

“What I had to.” Clipped words and Five doesn’t want Vanya to move any closer, doesn’t want her to see just how broken he really is.

“You don’t have to keep protecting us.” Her eyes are darting over his face, panicked and worried. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“I know, but all of this is my fault.” A half lie.

And it’s because he doesn’t know any other way to live,

Because he lost to much of his humanity,

Because he _misses_ Delores and her voice inside of his head.

(( **She kept him human and sane**. ))


	4. D

##  D is for Doctrine

  


_Noun_

**/ˈdäktrən/**

  * A belief or set of beliefs held and taught by a church, political party, or other group.
  * A stated principle of government policy, mainly in foreign or military affairs



Text that never made it to a book, a spoken word that clung to the polished walls of the Commission. Five hated every second of it, but it was a way of getting what he wanted, of getting _where_ he needed. It wasn’t his choice to join, not originally. Coercion on a weak mind, on that of a frail old man who had resigned himself to a life of solitude. They appeared out of thin air, out of dust and debris, out of the ruins of mankind and Five had thought that was the moment he truly went mad.

It was later, within the shiny, polished walls of Temps Aeternalis, of the _Commission_ , that he truly lost himself. Spread open on an operating table, wide awake.

He sets a goal, an end point, and the disgust he felt for the place only spurred him on. A violation of his soul, and they continued to take and take and take all that they could. (He’d never give up his last shred of humanity, clinging to the shredded remains of his mind.) The ultimate rebellion against all of the time corrections, all of the assassinations and deaths he caused. Five was never one to properly follow the rules. He’d bend and warp them to his will, adjust things to his viewpoint and maybe he’d been following another set of rules all along.

Ingrained since he was a child, pushed upon him before he could even know right from wrong.

_You are a hero, and you must do a hero’s work!_

**Protect the timeline at all cost.**

_Number Five! You must be ready to save the world at a moment’s notice!_

**Eradicate the anomalies.**

Contradictions, and he thinks they’re the reason he could never fully align himself with Temps. Not when he saw what they’d done, what their ultimate goal was. Not when he’d seen his family dead and left in the wreckage. He became the best they had, just to rip them apart like they’d done to him.

Piece  
by piece.


	5. E

##  E is for Eulogy

  


Polished shoes on tile, a uniform to reminiscent of the past and Five stares up at the painting hanging above the mantle. Poised and perfected, each brush stroke a nail in the coffin, a reminder of what he could have been. The day he ran out was the day he’d become someone else, was the day he found his own voice. A push through time became a push into the next decade and a push into a bleak and desolate land.

No wise words of wisdom were given, no hugs goodbye or soft smiles mixed with reassuring tears.

Five walked out of the academy that day and simply vanished. Lost to space and time and he found himself in the wreckage, a shattered tomb of what once was, unfamiliar faces mixed in. Denial only held so strong, the knot in his chest and throat as he dug identical graves. Blister torn hands, and he swears to that day that he can still feel them, can still smell the stench of decay permeating the world around him.

**(( The rotting corpses of his family ))**

_(( He spent too **long** trying to go back ))_

There were no words of sadness, no praise to be given. There was no soul to lend an ear, to hear his thoughts on those long passed. That was the day he said goodbye to his former self, goodbye to those he spoke to daily, goodbye to his childhood, however broken and distorted it had been.

Five stands in the foyer, dressed in the same clothes he wore. **(( Funeral attire ))** It’s like a punch to the gut if he thinks to hard, a literal weight on his shoulders, a reminder of what’s possible. He keeps the memories to himself, locked away into a tight little space, a cabinet in his mind. A little drawer where he keeps all of the memories he wants hidden away.

“What are you staring at?” Diego asks, the stairs creaking under his weight as he steps into the foyer. “Feel special having your face framed up there? Mocking the rest of us?”

Five turns, hands in his pockets. He looks at his brother with bright green eyes, pushes a smile onto his face and its saccharine, sickeningly sweet. “I’m driving.”

A spark of blue light, the scent of ozone followed by a soft popping sound and he’s vanished.

Remember me when I am gone away,  
Gone far away into the silent land;  
When you can no more hold me by the hand,  
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem is remember by christina rossetti


	6. F

##  F is for Fallacy

_Noun_

**/ˈfaləsē/**

[ Logic ]

  * a failure in reasoning which renders an argument invalid.
  * faulty reasoning; misleading or unsound argument.



Five knew from the very start that there was a fault in his logic. 

He knew it before Temps had appeared, knew it before he’d found himself in a wasteland, knew it even as he’d fallen back in time. Delores often told him to rethink things, to set himself aside and view the situation objectively. At times it would work, she was the voice of reason when he had no other. She’d remind him time and again that there was a flaw in his thinking.

The problem, was that that Five was starting to lose sight of it, was starting to lose _her_ voice inside of his head. The more time he spent with his siblings, with other people, the harder it was for Delores to speak to him. He’d given himself an ultimatum from the start, it was Temps or his family, it was the end of the world or his own life, it was Reginald or _them_. Constant either-or questions in which he failed to pick a side. Five knows that it’s the reason he wound up alone for so long, knows that it’s why he continuously goes back to see the Handler time and again. 

There was a fault in his logic.

The handler would always smile and offer up some job or assignment, the exchange being less then ideal. Five would fall for it each time. He’d accept the proposal knowing that the outcome wouldn’t be what he wanted, knowing that something else would come of it. He’s the very definition of insanity, of repeating a process and expecting a different outcome each time.

There was a fault in his logic.

Five continued to see things as black and white, this or that, situations that had only two outcomes. It took Klaus’s bubbling laughter one evening for him to realize it. Not drunk or high but giddy and his brother was just lounging in the living room, a ball of yarn and some horrific mess of a sweater being knitted into existence.

“Five, you really need to look at it like relationships.” An amused smile and the knitting needles are lowered. “Buddy why pick when you could date everyone and have everyone date each other. One big love pile.”

There was a fault in his logic.

False dichotomy and the notion of only two choices.

Five tilts his head, expression shifting. “You’re right, I think I will.” And he isn’t answering Klaus despite there being no other person in the room.

“Wait – what? You’re a little small to be dating.”

Lips pressed into a straight line and he breathes out through his nose, an attempt at keeping his _annoyance_ in check. Life lessons from Klaus and Five is still learning things from his family of idiots.

He vanishes from the room in a spark of blue and the static pop of ozone. ****


	7. G

##  G is for Graveyard

**Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate**   


_(( Abandon all hope, ye who enter here ))_  


Metal gates at the entrance to the academy and Five used to think the inscription above hell should have graced its doors. He’d contemplated it in the past, finding a ladder and a can of spray paint, capital letters in Italian just to irritate their father. A childish notion that still clings to his mind decades later. It was a feat he never accomplished, didn’t want to see their mother out there cleaning the mess up, didn’t want to hear Reginald rant and scold the entire group for his actions.

Even now, with decades stacked up and a lifetime spent away from the building, Five still hates passing through the front doors. A lump in his throat, jaw tense and it’s a pavlovian response, ingrained in him throughout his formative years. The house is nothing more then a shell of its former self, a catacomb to a life spent in solitude. Five has learned that his siblings did not fair well within the walls, had read about it in Vanya’s book, had heard it through the walls in conversations he’d rather not bare witness to. 

The place was a tomb, polished and shined by Grace who knew no better, lived in for years upon years by a man who had no real friends. With his demise the building sat as a reminder that love was not something given, was something to be earned and cherished by the family. In a way Five had been pleased to see the academy destroyed, had felt almost giddy at its destruction. A shattered tombstone for the death of their past.

Seeing the place once more, intact as if nothing had happened, left him with a sense of grief.

The floor was still polished, the paintings still clung to the walls, the windows dusted and clear. History that could not be wiped away so easily had leeched into the bones of the building, like a ghost that haunted the estate. Memories that haunted his mind in ways he’d never admit.

Heels clack against tile and Five doesn’t move from the foyer, listens as Grace comes around the corner. She smiles at his presence, painted lips, and hair perfectly in place. “Welcome home Five.”

Hands tucked into his pockets and he rearranges his expression, softens his features into a smile that is only a shadow of his past.

He knows why he keeps coming back, why he hasn’t moved on to some place new.

“Thank you, mom.” ****


	8. H

##  H is for Hallucinogen

_Noun_

**/həˈlo͞osənəˌjen/**

「 A psychoactive agent that often or ordinarily causes hallucinations, perceptual anomalies, and other substantial subjective changes in thought, emotion, and consciousness 」   


In the evening, when the lights of the house go out, when the building seems to exhale and settle into the earth, Five finds himself lying awake. Sleep is something that he has to work for, is something that he doesn’t fall into with ease. He’s spent too many years listening for scavenging animals, listening for the sound of steps outside of his room, for the click of a gun aimed at his head. At night, when the house is still, he can hear the floors creek, can hear the draft of the window, can hear the hum of electricity coursing around him.

He’s spent too long in a world without it to not notice it now, spent too many years sleeping on hard surfaces, in places tucked away so no animal could find him. At night Five remembers the things he saw at Temps; remembers moments he’d rather forget. A large portion of his time was spent on a cocktail of drugs, stimulants, hallucinogen’s, various mind alterations to help him be _the best_. All things he’s grown an immunity to, thinks he never wants to experience again. 

Lying in a bed that’s to nostalgic to be anything else and Five feels like he’s back in that polished building, feels like he’s dreaming of the academy.

There’re moments in which he flicks the lights on, carries on like sleep is something of a luxury and not a necessity. There’re moments in which he rolls over and feels like he’s suffocating in the dark, panicked over the notion that he’s living in a hallucination. There’re moments that the exhaustion is too much, that he’s been awake for too many days straight to even focus.

Five drags himself from bed, to exhausted to teleport into the other room. The creek of the door is quiet, barely audible but Diego has a knife in hand, poised to throw it despite being half asleep. He blinks in the darkness, eyes landing on Five, at his tousled hair and wide eyes. “What are you doing?” Comes the groggy response, the small dagger being set back on the nightstand.

“I can’t sleep.”

“And?” Diego’s rolled onto his back, is rubbing at his eyes.

“Can I sleep in here?” 

“Why?” It’s not a no, and Five is pushing the door back shut, is climbing onto the bed. He fits himself into the small space between Diego and the wall, is curling up with his back to his brother. He’s there because he can’t sleep, because the idea of being alone gnaws at his chest and pricks at his eyes, he’s there because he’s to afraid that being _home_ is just another fabricated lie from Temps, he’s there because he’s wants someone to look after him.

“Five?” Diego tries again, the blankets rustling as he rolls onto his side.

He doesn’t get a response, only listens to the quiet, even breathing of someone whose already asleep. ****


	9. I

##  I is for Insatiable

_Adjective_

**/inˈsāSHəb(ə)l/**

  * impossible to satisfy
  * having an insatiable appetite or desire for something



There’s a side to himself that he keeps locked away.

Bolted down tight, in the farthest reaches of his mind and Five lies about it’s presence. He knows his family has heard about his past, knows that Diego has born witness to the aftermath on more then one occasion. He’s come back, covered in blood with matted hair on too many occasions. His response is always the same, a reminder that it’s not his own, as if that would quell their worry. The subject has been brought up, questions raised about his activities, and it always ends the same. 

Five lies about the corners of his mind, about the part of himself he keeps tucked away.

He says that he doesn’t like killing, tells everyone that he doesn’t enjoy it in the least. A mantra kept in place, like repetition would make it real. Idiotic fallacies that he can’t let go of. The problem is that, a small part of him does. It’s the side that he pushes down, that’s detached from the world, from the people he’s been fighting to protect. Five knows better then anyone else there’s a monster in the back of his head, caged up and tucked away. It’s a creature born from forced submission, from too many drugs and too many experiments for any sane individual.

Five knows that he’s genetically different, spliced to be the _best_. 

He wears a mask during the day, holds it in place and smiles like a _normal_ person. He’s poised and calm and rational until he’s losing grip. Angry and cruel, words that cut worse than a knife and it’s only the tip of an iceberg. Five is a monster wearing a child’s face, is the very definition a devil in disguise. 

The problem with the world patched up, with the threat of impending doom nullified, is that he finds it harder and harder to keep a grasp on the _thing_ Temps created. 

“Happy birthday.” Allison says, plopping down in the kitchen chair adjacent from him.

The newspaper rustles and Five lowers it, green eyes peering up over the articles. There’s a small pet carrier set on the table, a pink sniffing nose poking out of a small hole. 

“Met your emotional support puppy, Mr. Pennycrumb.” ****


	10. J

##  J is for Judas

Judas Iscariot   
_Apostle of Jesus_

**(( The Betrayer ))**

He sees the way her office is laid out, the polished floors and weapons on display. Blonde hair with painted lips, and a smile that’s as sharp as his words. She wears vibrant heels that have her looming over him, a hand that touches his shoulder too often. The Handler has always been physical, has always smiled a bit too much and it’s stuck in his mind, prominent and he can’t help but force one in response. 

A deceiving gesture.

Fingers that trail over his neck, that tap at his nose, and brush against the side of his face. Even in his regressed form she’s still the same. It’d bother him more if he didn’t understand her reasoning. Five knows the woman to well, knows what makes her tick, has worked by her side long enough to notice. She touches to gain power, to be disarming, to cause a disconnect in thoughts. Distraction at its finest and he wonders how she learned it, when.

Five uses it to his advantage, doesn’t brush the Handler off, doesn’t scold her or step back. They’re too much alike, using tactics otherwise unseen. He smiles, placating and responds in kind, always lets his eyes linger a moment longer then needed. 

It’s harder to see the knife coming when it’s from someone you – 

Proximity and comments on his attire, on his stature and she’s aiming to be condescending. Five doesn’t respond, doesn’t see the point in it, not when he knows the outcome. He wonders if he’ll be the reason she eventually dies, if it’ll be his hand holding the gun, the knife, the blade. Blood spatter on his face once more, red on white.

A sharp object to the heart, a stab to the back and he’ll stand there and watch the light fade from her eyes.

Five thinks he might kiss her, for the Judas that he is.


End file.
